


Perfect

by Mypissedoffsandwich



Category: Captain America (Movies), Captain America - All Media Types, Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - No Powers, Angst with a Happy Ending, Bucky Barnes Has PTSD, Bucky is 16, Creepy Alexander Pierce, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Discussion of past sex abuse of a child (not graphic), M/M, So does Steve, Steve Rogers Has PTSD, Steve is 20, Use of religious figurines as a weapon, bucky deserves better, fasting for religion, victim souls
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-08-15
Updated: 2018-09-10
Packaged: 2019-06-27 16:26:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Underage
Chapters: 5
Words: 9,780
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15689091
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mypissedoffsandwich/pseuds/Mypissedoffsandwich
Summary: “With trembling hands, he drops his cigarette butt to the ground, stepping on it to stamp out the cherry with his foot. He pulls another from the pack settled on the pavement next to him. He cups his hands around the flame in an attempt to calm his shaking and light his cigarette.”They said he’d have six years, It’s hardly been two. Thought he’d have time to grow up and get away.It’s hardly been two years, and he’s already run out of time.Perfect.





	1. Chapter 1

They had promised him safety until he was Twenty.

Bucky thought he’d have more time, thought he’d have six years, and yet, here he sat. Two years in and they’d already decided that was good enough.

He kicks once more at the loose pebbles beneath his feet. He’s sitting on the curb in front of the neighborhood dumpster. The air hangs heavy with the sickly sweet stench of rot and old grease. The dumpster is freshly painted, a pretty shade of blue. He tilts his head considering, like the forget-me-nots that his ma used to have growing in the front garden. He shakes his head. It doesn’t matter how pretty they paint the dumpster, it’s lid is still warped from use and it’s still a dirty, nasty, disgusting dumpster.

“Perfect,” He says into the air before taking a long drag off the Lucky Strike and stretches his head back. He blows the smoke out in one long breath, pushing the air from his lungs and holding it there just long enough to feel the burn in his lungs, and the pressure in his head. He sits here, waiting, trying to tempt the neighborhood do-gooders from their air-conditioned homes to snatch the cigarette from him, to yell at him, do anything.

But they won’t, too afraid he’s diseased. Like if they come near him they too will be forever tainted by the things he’s never been able to control. As if they too will break, and become trash like him.

These people who are constantly trying to fix things, to push their noses into everyone’s business -- convinced that their way is the only right way and their beautification patrols and their Holier-Than-Thou attitudes -- are the very same people who protested and fought with the housing committee to prevent his mother from renting out the duplex in the front of the complex for his stepfather to live in upon his release.

Not that it had done them any good, of course. His mother's attorney used their own laws against them, promising to sue the owners of the complex if their rental requests were denied. The owner had no choice but to acquiesce to their demands, leaving the community struck silent, betrayed by the rules they’d laid down themselves.

His mother had said to him earlier this morning as he sat tucked into the couch watching his mother zip her skirt in the living room, “Anyways, it’s only for a short while before we can all live like a family again.” Her cheeks were flushed, red staining her high cheekbones, bright in contrast with her pale skin. “He’s really looking forward to being home again, James. The thought of us as a family again is what’s kept him going. I hope you can appreciate that he loves and misses us so much.”

He stared at her silently, pulling his knees slightly closer to his chest. This was how he could stay safe, silence.

“Now where in heaven's sake did I…? Oh, there it is." She crossed back into the laundry room to grab her blouse. Her dark bra visible through the white fabric. Not as though it did any good as her wraithlike figure didn’t exactly lend itself to any sort of chest. “As far as this whole ‘Transitional period’ goes… really, I would have rather had you spend the weekend with your grandmother as we’d planned before so your father and I could have some time for ourselves first, but he insisted." Frowning, she unbuttoned the second button. “Hmm, perhaps I should have gone with the other? Given them a bit more volume….?” She muttered to herself in the mirror just inside the door. “He wants us both here for him, and that says quite a bit about what a loving and forgiving man he is. He wants us to start over. We’ve all had to sacrifice, James. I hope you get that.”

He stares at his hands, picking at the cuticles with his thumbnail, watching as blood begins to well up where he pushed it too high and split the skin above the nail.

She sighed irritably as she stared into the mirror trying to perfect her dark eye-shadow. It looked like the sort of makeup that’d be worn by one of the twenty-something girls that lived on the nearby campus, rather than a forty-year-old woman desperately clinging to her long faded youth. “Here,” she said, roughly passing him a rhinestone choker necklace. “Careful not to get your fingerprints all over it,” she said before turning and lifting her hair to the side.

He latched the clasp gently, careful not to let the metal pull and scratch against his mother's neck. He paused for a moment, his hand gently brushing against the warm skin at the base over her neck.

“Hurry up, James.” she snapped as he pulled his hand back watching as she stepped away, shaking her long curls back into place. She leaned slightly against the counter as she slipped on the red pumps she only wore on special occasions. Standing once more, she smoothed her hands across the lap of her skirt. “No wrinkles, no lines, perfect.” She pouted once into the mirror before spritzing some sort of perfume onto her neck and wrists. He unfolded himself, standing and walking silently over to cap the perfume, placing it carefully back into her makeup bag. “I used this exact shade of red in the ‘WELCOME HOME’ banner, the flowers in the front garden, and even the towels in your father's condo, you know.” She said blotting her lips with a tissue, passing him the tube of lipstick. “In decorating, you want to make sure everything ties with something, throughout the entire space. To create the impression of harmony in one's life. I think your father will be pleased, he always did adore the color.” She looped a gauzy scarf around her neck, glancing quickly at her watch. “Oh! Time to run. Change, James.” she gave him a stern look, glancing down at the holes in the knees of his jeans, and the holes he’d picked into the hem of his shirt. “I’ll not have you looking like a ragamuffin at your father’s celebration.”

Wrong. This was all wrong, he wanted to say as she swept out the door, her scarf trailing behind her as she swept out the door. Tonight is when his worst nightmare becomes reality. When the obscene becomes acceptable.

His stepfather has only been gone for two years. Long enough for the town to finally stop giving them the cold shoulder, for his victims to begin healing. Long enough for him to lose one counselor to crippling depression, another to pregnancy, and a third to career burnout. And just long enough for his mother to be granted a divorce twice over had she ever bothered to apply for one. But she hasn’t, instead, she made the same two-hour drive every Saturday morning without fail.

Today she will make her final trip to the upstate penitentiary, and thanks to Megan's Law, everyone in this city knows this.

Alexander Pierce’s release date had been shared with all the local authorities, Schools, and youth leaders. They were given printouts with his name, photo, address, physical description, license plate number, and of course the crimes in which he was convicted of. According to the law, they weren't supposed to distribute the information, but why wouldn’t they? It wasn’t their backs they were painting a target on. Besides, Alexander's photo and information were listed publicly on the Official New York State Sex Offender Registry.

His mother just ignores everything; the hostility, the whispers, and looks, the disgust in her own mothers face anytime Winnifred brings Alexander up, the emotionless expression on his face.

Winnifred sees nothing that she doesn’t want to see, never has.

For the last two years it’s been worse, she hasn’t wanted to see him, carefully averting her eyes as though his scars were visible, and he was so disgustingly disfigured that she couldn’t bring herself to do more than glance briefly at him from the very edge of her eye. Speaking to him casually, as though she were really speaking to herself, paying no mind to the way her words affected him. Filling his ears with complaints of his appearance, attitude, dirty dishes, or stray bits of his long hair shed carelessly.

So he drags the proof of his existence behind him, with the hope that someday his mother will stop talking at him, and rather with him. That finally she’ll hear him and see the unpleasantness she’d been willfully ignoring.

That someday she’ll stop and pull the dagger from his heart, put pressure to the wound and stand before him, protecting him from danger and shout the words “NO, You will no longer harm my son.”

With trembling hands, he drops his cigarette butt to the ground, stepping on it to stamp out the cherry with his foot. He pulls another from the pack settled on the pavement next to him. He cups his hands around the flame in an attempt to calm his shaking and light his cigarette. But he’s shaking so hard he burns his hand, and the cigarette tumbles from his mouth and hits the ground before rolling into the gutter at his feet.

He looks up at the sound of a car, the familiar sound of his mother’s Acura pulling his attention. His eyes are immediately drawn to the man in the passenger seat.

Alexander.


	2. Chapter 2

The driver's side door squeals a bit as it opens, so his mother can step out. She looks around, looking for something expectantly. She spots him sitting on the curb, rather than running towards them screaming, _“Welcome Home, Daddy!”_ Her lips pinch in annoyance at him. “James,” she calls, crooking her finger at him, trying to get him to come closer. “Look at who’s home!” Her bright red nails look bloody in the setting summer sun. “Come say hello!”

And he can’t. He’s paralyzed, frozen to the spot. His breath catches in his throat and he can feel it choking him. He wants to run. His father’s head turns to face him, Bucky's eyes jump away, gaze catching on the fists he’s clenching in his lap. He counts the freckles that scatter across the back of his hands. Two, four, eight, twenty-two he counts in total. He can smell the terror on himself, the smell clogging his nose worse than any dumpster ever could. Oh God, please, no, don’t let this happen. Why is this happening?

“James,” his mother calls again, irritation lacing through her words despite them sounding as sweet and slow as warm honey. “I’m talking to you. Come here and welcome your father home. Now.”

It’s the “now” that pulls him from his protective trance, puncturing through the paralysis. He’s here Now. Now she can finally be happy. Now he’s supposed to pretend like nothing ever happened like all is forgiven. Forgotten.

Anger is what saves him. He plants his hands on the ground beside him, using them to leverage himself into a standing position. He pulls down the edge of his tee-shirt that has ridden up and shakes his head enough to allow for his hair to loose itself from where he’d tucked it behind his ears, letting it hang like curtains in front of his face. His eyes burn in the sudden heat.

He watches, pushing down the fright as he sees one foot, and then another step onto the pavement of their driveway. He can see that the clothes his stepfather wears are new. But he can't bring himself to look any higher than the man’s ankles. If he looks any higher -- and he won't -- he’ll see the plain gold wedding band hanging from the chain he’d put it on shortly after he’d married Bucky’s mother.

Bucky’s teeth ache, and he cringes internally as he remembers the ring banging against his front teeth.

“Hello, James.”

His voice is quiet, calm, thick with memory… and it’s Bucky’s ruin. He’s sick with the feelings of old love and disgust writhing in his stomach, anxiety choking him as they flay him open from the inside. The force of them nearly bringing him to his knees. He locks his knees, fighting with himself from swaying towards the man. This wasn’t supposed to ever happen. He’d already spent years steeling himself, playing every painful, rotten, disgusting moment over and over in his mind forcing some form of immunity. He hid from nothing so there would never be anything that would drag him back, he thought he’d done it, steeled himself from any emotion he could ever possess for him. And yet, two words and he’s lost.

To a fucking _greeting_.

He wants to vomit. To run as far away as it’s possible. To never have to relive these memories ever again.

_“No, Daddy, no. Don’t.”_

“James,” Alexander says again, his voice soft and pleading, a voice he knows to his core, a voice that sends nausea churning in his stomach and rising in his throat. He can feel the slick burn of bile as he looks up, swallowing hard to keep it all down. It’s all he can manage and far more than he deserves.

“Well then.” His mother plants her hands on her hips, lips pursed, pissed. “Is that the best welcome you have? Why don’t you come give your father a hug?”

Hug him? She wants him to touch him? How could she even suggest such a thing?

“It’s fine Winnifred. Don’t push him.” He slams the passenger door shut and stretches a bit, glancing around at the quiet street. Curtains shift and close once more, but Alexander continues as though he doesn’t notice. “Nice neighborhood. Quiet. We have the rest of our lives to be a family. Isn’t that right, Jamie?”

Bucky’s head jerks up, his hair parting, and for a swift moment, the predator's eyes lock with its prey.

He winks before turning back to Bucky’s mother. “Not to worry, two years is a long time for a kid, Winnifred.”

Not long enough! He wants to scream, but the words choke him, becoming stuck in his throat, muting him. Chained where he is as his stomach cramps and defensive walls scramble dazedly to stay in place. He’d found the chink in his armor so quickly. Calling him by his old nickname had shattered right through any wall he’d built in the last two years. Whether he knew it or not was the question. Bucky prayed he didn’t. So far all he’d given was silence and shock, he’d have to believe that he still had that defense. If he was gonna survive this, he’d have to.

“Yes, it is,” his mother says, scowling at him. She gives him a final exasperated look before turning back to collect her purse. “Why don’t we head in out of the heat, Alexander? I’ve some steak defrosting in the-” her words reminding him of his sabotage.

“No you don’t.” He says, forcing himself to walk up the lawn towards them. The grass is cool, so he stops, making a show of removing his shoes and sitting in the shaded grass, wiggling his toes in the dirt beneath them. Reaching up he shifts his hair from his face, scratching at his stubbly chin with dirty nails, making certain his stepfather noted his poor hygiene. He hated the feeling of dirt caked on his skin, but Alexander hated it more. So he makes do.

“Yes I do,” his mother replies, confusion marring her features. “I took three out before I left.”

“And I tossed them,” he says, nodding at the dumpster. “They smelled sour, figured they’d gone off.” He shrugs disinterestedly.

“What? All of them?” Her voice kicking up a note or two. “James, how could you?”

“They were sour,” he shrugs again, blankly. “Probably loaded with a parasite. You know, it’s the stuff you can’t see that gives you the most trouble.”

Alexander rubs a hand over his face, wiping away some of the sweat that’d gathered on his forehead.

“What, so you just threw them away?” She repeats, her voice taking a slightly hysterical tone. “Fifty dollars’ worth of steaks! They couldn’t possibly be rotten! I bought them only a few days ago!”

“Go ahead and smell ‘em for yourself, they’re right on top.” He jerks his head back over towards the dumpster.

Bucky knows she won't. Alexander might, just to reassert any authority he can over Bucky. And Bucky hopes he does, that he sees the carefully laid out steaks, sitting atop a split bag of liquified and rotten food.

“James… I can’t… why would you…. I can’t believe-” his mother stutters. She’s breathing hard, torn between fury and embarrassment as she balances her plans for a happy and peaceful homecoming and wanting to shriek at him.

“Never mind that, Whin,” Alexander steps into the conversation, crossing around the back of the car to place his hand in the center of her back. His hand sits awkwardly, and though she leans into his side, Bucky can see him physically hold himself from cringing away. He worships youth. She chases her own, but could never be young enough for him again. “I’ve been craving the Lo Mien from Hong Kong House for months. Come on, let's go order some.”

Neither turn back to look at him as they make their way up the stone steps to the scarlet door, fumbling with the keys to open it.

He stays sitting in place, silently counting the petals on the roses that sit bracketing either side of the door. He counts them in two’s, the numbers calming him. It isn’t long before he stops trembling, his heart slowing back to resting.

His parents will call the Hong Kong House, to try to place an order, but it’ll be refused. They’ll say they no longer deliver to the area, or that the driver quit, and they have yet to find a new one. It’s discrimination, but it’s one that Bucky can appreciate. They’ll perhaps try another place, but many will say the same.

His mother doesn’t bother to know that they all shun them, because she doesn’t want to see it. They’ll see soon enough of course.

The citizens of the burbs don’t take kindly to child molesters, nor do they care for the families that host them, and deliberately release them back into the community.

Bucky glances up at the duplex across the street from his.

Steve, who has both ordered and received countless calls of take-out for him stands in his living room window. The setting sun highlighting the scars that riddle across his bare chest. He tilts his head to the side, staring at Bucky, concerned. When Bucky nods, Steve lifts his bottle of Jameson in a silent salute.

Bucky nods once more because Steve sees, and he knows.


	3. Chapter 3

He walks through the front door in time to hear his mother disbelieving, “What do you mean you don’t deliver to this area? Since when?”

There’s silence, before the sound of the phone slamming onto it’s receiver echoes throughout the house.

“Well,” his mother huffs, voice thick with indignation. “Apparently they don’t care if they lose valuable customers!” 

Bucky wanders into the kitchen, glancing briefly at his stepfather sitting patiently beneath his ‘WELCOME HOME!’ banner. His mother stands next to the sink. The room os over-crowded and smells of soured nerves.

His mother eyes him as he walks silently into the kitchen, making a bee-line directly to the glass cupboard. “James, did you know, that neither Hong Kong House or Rizzo’s Pizzeria are delivering to our area?”

He looks at her briefly before turning back to face the cupboard. “Since when?” he asks, nonchalantly removing his pill bottles from the bottom shelf. “I ordered a pie from Rizzo’s yesterday for lunch and they had no problem delivering it.” Really, Steve had placed the order and they’d eaten it together, but they didn’t need to know that and he saw no reason to mention it. “So why should they quit delivering now?”

The silence in the room answers him, drawing attention to the obvious reason.

He continues pulling bottle after bottle of his vitamins and depression medication from the shelf, lining them up side by side, largest to smallest on the counter below it. He begins uncapping them one by one, shaking free a pill from each before placing the pills in a neat row before him as he recapped and put away the bottles.

“What in the world are you doing?” Alexander asks.

Bucky remains silent as he works, removing a glass from the cupboard before he shuts it, focusing on ensuring his survival.

“It’s nice to see your fathers return hasn’t ruined your little rituals,” his mother says spitefully, reaching into the fridge to pull free a can of seltzer water despite herself. “He won’t say a word when he’s taking his medication. I have no idea why, don’t bother asking.” Her laugh is stressed. “I’m so sorry Alexander, I don’t mean to snap. It’s just you’re finally home, and I really wanted everything to be…” She sighs deeply, smiling widely at her husband. “You’re home, and that's all that really matters.”

Bucky coughs to clear his throat before continuing to swallow his vitamins in groups of two. Two pills, two sips of water. Two is the number he’s chosen to keep him safe. The number grounds him in reality, brought to life to flank him. It’s a sturdy number, rounded and yet sharp enough to defend him, with it he’s felt safe ever since he found it that first night in the hospital.

“You know, I haven’t cooked in a long while, and I’ve been dying to. Now seems as good of a time as any.” Alexander states, standing and moving in Bucky’s direction. The pills he’s gathered into his hand shake against each other, clicking. He shove[1]s them into his mouth, forcing himself to swallow them dry. 

Alexander’s shoes squeak against the floor as he walks. If he touches Bucky -- traps him in his arm and pulls them together -- if that ring presses against his skin, then --

The quiet sound of suction releasing, breaks through his anxiety.

“Oh no, Alexander. I couldn’t make you cook! This is your welcome home dinner!” Winifred protests.

“It’s fine,” Alexander waves her off. “I need to get back into a routine anyhow. Besides, you know how much I love to cook for my family. Now, what do we have to work with?”

Cool air washes over Bucky and he quickly risks a glance over his shoulder, hoping it’ll go unnoticed. He can see his stepfather shifting things around in the freezer.

Memories surface, clouding his sight with visions of the kitchen in their old house.

_Alexander stands in front of the fridge, pulling out bottles of water. Wiping the condensation from the bottles onto a pair of faded red basketball shorts, the golden ring standing out starkly against his white tee-shirt. They’d just come in from where Alexander was teaching James how to play baseball. “Don’t worry, Jamie. You’ll get it. We can try again tomorrow.”_

_James slumps in his chair, staring beneath the table at his dirty sneakers. His hands hurt from being clenched around the bat all day, they are already developing blisters where it had rubbed his skin raw. “I wanted to hit the ball today,” his lip trembles with unshed tears. “If I got a hit, then you would like me the way you like the boys who get hits.”_

_His father stills. “And how is that, Jamie?”_

_“Better,” James says petulantly. His voice breaking at the end of the word._

_“Hey, hey, hey. Don’t cry.” he says crouching before the boy, drawing him into a hug. He rubs James’ back as he burrows into his father’s neck and shoulder. “You’re my boy. And I will always like you best.”_

_“Really?” James’ voice is muffled against his neck, his mouth moving over salty skin. He tastes like the pretzels they have at the baseball games. He pretends to bite his father, raking his newly grown in fore teeth against his father’s skin, laughing. “Yummy, you taste good, Daddy.”_

_His father suddenly grips him tighter, pulling him from the chair. His father's arms are too tight, his body suddenly too warm. James wiggles free of his father’s grip._

_“How many strikes until I’m out?”_

_His father stands and walks back toward the fridge “Three,” he says, and his voice is rougher than it’d been only a few moments before, but James pays no notice. “That sound good, Jamie?”_

“That sound good, Jamie?”

Bucky shoves the final two pills into his mouth, draining the remaining water from his glass. It drips around the corner of his mouth, trailing down his chin and splashing onto his shirt. He doesn’t bother wiping at the liquid still dripping slightly from his chin.

“James, your father is speaking to you,” his mother says. “He’s going to grill some burgers. Doesn’t that sound wonderful?”

He leans past her to rinse the glass. “I’m going out.” he says, voice rough from the sharp edge of the drinks[2] carbonation. 

“Out?” his stepfather questions. “Now? What about dinner?”

“Already ate,” Bucky says, watching the running faucet. The cold water bubbles into the glass and pushes back up and out, splashing against the stainless steel tub. He ignores it, knowing his mother will take a rag and dry it before the droplets can dry on their own and leave unsightly spots.

“Stop, you’re making a mess of it,” she snaps at him, reaching past them to turn off the water. “What is _wrong_ with you today?” She grabs the dish towel from where it hangs on the oven door. Looking down, she sees the long line of water that has soaked into the stomach of her blouse where she’s leaned into the wet countertop. “Oh no, this is silk! It isn’t supposed to get wet!” she frantically blots at the fabric, only succeeding in spreading the water. “I hope you’re happy, James! Welcome home, Alexander!” She bursts into sobs, rushing furiously from the room. 

He can hear her bedroom door slam, but doesn’t hear the tell-tale click of the lock, though, and the invitation is clear.

“That wasn’t a very nice thing to do,” Alexander says a moment later, making no move to follow his mother. “If you’re mad at me, don’t take it out on her.”

“I rinsed out a glass,” Bucky says, voice emotionless, turning to leave, because Alexander and him are not allowed to be in a room together alone, ever, and everyone knows it.

“Wait,” Alexander grabs his wrist as he moves to leave. Retrieving the dish towel as he moves closer, laying it neatly over the counter next to Bucky. Casually blocking his only exit. “Come on now, what’s with you? I know it’s been a few years, but I’m not a stranger.” and then, voice softer, “Are you holding a grudge against me? If you are, we’re gonna have to work through it, I’m home to stay.”

His heat sparks the kindling in Bucky’s chest and he stands helpless, hair hanging like greasy curtains in front of his face, trapped between Alexander and the fire…

_“Mmm, dessert.” His stepfather brings forward a small spoonful of sweet vanilla pudding towards James’ mouth. “Open up, Jamie.”_

_The toddler giggles happily as he does so, patting his hands onto the man’s knees._

_He laughs at the child’s excitement. “ Don’t you you just look like an adorable baby bird.” he leans forward, placing a small kiss onto the toddlers nose._

_Giggling more, the little boy opens his mouth for more…_

“I’m hurt that you never came to visit,” he says quietly, rubbing his hand softly against Bucky’s left arm. “Two years is an awful long time. Don’t you think we should forgive each other and move forward? I love you, you know? Doesn’t that count for anything?”

Bucky’s blood boils beneath his skin, feeling like he’ll explode if he doesn’t find a way out soon.

“C’mon,” he says. It isn’t the plea for forgiveness, nor is it the wheedling in his tone that makes Bucky sick. Instead, it’s the reflection in the window, of his thumb tracing soft circles on his wrist. “How about giving your dad a break, huh, Jamie?”

“Jamie is dead. Has been since you killed him.” Bucky says, his face and voice flat and blank. He pushes past Alexander, and walks calmly out the front door and into the darkening evening beyond.


	4. Chapter 4

Bucky hesitates, heart threatening to burst from his chest, and when Alexander doesn’t follow, he hurries around the blind side of the duplex. They have the very last unit in the complex, just next to the dumpster.

Bad things are happening. It’s not his imagination and it isn’t paranoia either. It’s real. His gut hasn’t stopped twisting since the car pulled into the drive earlier that evening, and it isn’t because of the past. He knows every inch of what’s done; what Bucky fears is what _he_ seems to know is coming.

Bucky thinks of his mother throwing that fit and flouncing off, expecting for her husband to follow and comfort her in the privacy of her bedroom. He hadn’t, though, at least not in the moment that it had mattered, and that was no good.

He needs to move so he runs past Steve’s mother’s creaky old Ford, settled in the driveway. The paint is chipped and warped revealing slate gray metal beneath the faded green paint. The neighborhood association hate this car, claims that it brings down the value of the home that surround the Rogers residence, that it ruins the quality of life of the neighborhoods residents. They’ve been searching for a way to ban it from the complex, but just like the dumpster lid, the car twarts all their attempts. It passes all the emissions tests, it’s registered, licensed, and insured. So until an ordinance is passed that prohibits ugly vehicles from the complex, they’re stuck with it.

What they don’t know -- and don’t really even seem to care about -- is that Ms. Rogers has a perfectly good reason to drive that old clunker. It’s the best nosey-neighbor repellent that Bucky’s ever seen. Everyone ignores the Rogers’ because the only thing worse than a clunky beat-to-shit old car is the possibility that someone will notice you talking with its owner.

Steve opens the sliding glass door as Bucky reaches the back ramp.

The light over the door had burnt out last year, on the night they moved in, Steve wheeling up the newly built ramp, scowl on his face. His mother had told Bucky that she’d taken the sudden darkness as a sign from God, and refuses to go against His will by lighting a path through what he intended to be dark.

“I saw,” Steve says. His pupils are wide in the dark, only a small sliver of bright blue iris ringing them and his skin is the color of snow because he rarely leaves the house. It’s a strange sight from all the days Bucky has known him, even stranger when he thinks back to last year when Steve had still been almost a burnt tan that had resulted from spending too much time in direct sunlight. Steve looks at Bucky, scanning his face and expression before backing up enough for Bucky to come inside.

“I noticed,” Bucky responds, slipping into the dark kitchen, he can smell incense burning and can see the flame flicker on the prayer candles Steve and his Mother burn each night. “I need a shower.” He says firmly.

“Go for it,” Steve gestures down the hall, nonchalantly, as though this is not an abnormal request. “Just shift all the shit out of the way.”

“Thanks.” Bucky says as he moves past and down the dark hallway. Ms. Rogers door is across the hall from the bathroom, but it’s Wednesday and her door is shut, so he doesn’t stop to say hello.

Steve’s bathroom has the same layout as his own, but that’s the only similarity between them. Rather than the fluffy gray towels, sleek marble and chrome like his, theirs is more cozy with it’s worn down brown bath mat and vinyl shower curtain that hangs torn and crooked on the rod. But it’s clean and has a bar of irish spring, so he undresses and grabs a new washcloth from the cupboard, moves the chair out of the tub, and spends his entire ten minute shower scrubbing as hard as he can to rid himself of the feel of Alexander's hands on his skin.

He counts the floor tiles as he dries himself, doing so absently at first and then becoming anxious as he realizes the numbers can’t form any sort of pattern, there are too many, or too few. The numbers he comes up with make him anxious, blocks of four leaving a row of seven half tiles and one full tile. 

There is both power and loneliness in the number one. It is the beginning, the first of everything. It’s not as unsettling.

Seven, on the other hand, is the number of completion. Seven vices and virtues. Seven deadly sins. On the seventh day, God rested.

He shakes his hair free, shoving the towel and washcloth into the hamper beside the bath and returns to the kitchen.

Steve turns back from watching out the glass door. “All clear.” 

“Okay.” Bucky responds, moving towards the incense on the side table, cupping the smoke in his hands pulling its rich smell over him. He isn’t self-conscious about standing in Steve’s living room, his clothes still laying in a heap on the bathroom floor. Steve knows nearly all of him now, has explored the parts of him he keeps shuttered from the rest of the world, and has tended his bruises. There is very little Bucky could do to chase Steve away at this point, even if he wanted to. “Want to order a Pizza? I’ll buy.”

“It’s Wednesday,” Steve reminds him, swiping his hand through his hair, pushing it from his face. “There’s a couple slices from last night. I’ll warm them up.” He waves his hand at the dining table, and grips the wheels of his wheelchair to move it into the kitchen.

Bucky sits in his regular spot and watches as Steve removes a paper plate from the stack in the lower cupboard. He’ll be the only one eating tonight; Ms. Rogers and Steve follow the old ways of the Catholic Church; Wednesdays and Fridays are for fasting and Ms. Rogers only let’s wounded souls and broken spirits through the doors of her home as she and Steve purify themselves. He thinks about how he fits into both categories as he lights a cigarette from Steve’s pack left lying on the table, blowing rings into the air and watching as they mingle and dissipate into the already smoaky air. “So, what do you think?” he asks.

Steve places the pizza into the microwave and turns to face him, eyes becoming soft and deep with sorrow. He grasps at the bottle of Jameson tucked between his thighs, lifts it and drinks deeply.

This won’t be any good.

He shoves the bottle back between his thighs, rolling himself forward until his knees bump into Bucky’s. He grabs the hand not holding the cigarette, bows his head, and murmurs a short prayer into the skin of Bucky’s palm before sitting back. “Your father is not _better,_ he’s not _reformed._ He’s not repentant of his sins, Buck, He’s _eager_. He’s gone without for at least two years, and he’s going to want more now, than ever.” Steve’s bare skin prickles with goosebumps. “Your mom will only be able to get him off for so long. Sooner or later he’s gonna still want to get off, but not with your mom, you know? He barely glanced at her. All he sees is you.”

Bucky nods, biting his lip trying to swallow back the sudden nausea. He takes another drag of his cigarette, nearly burning his lip on the too close cherry. He rubs the filter out in the ashtray. “He says he loves me,” Bucky grimaces. “I was hoping it’d be different, that I’d be too old for him now. I mean, I look different, I smell different… but, he called me _Jamie_ , and I knew.” Bucky lights a second cigarette, careful of his shaking hands and the flame. “It isn’t over. He says we should forgive and forget, as though I’m to blame! Then he tries to guilt me because he was hurt that I’d never gone to see him in prison.” He jerks his fist, waving his hand, the smoke trails arching briefly before dissipating. “I felt like yelling ‘Good! I’m glad it hurt you! Hope it fucking kills you!’, but I didn’t , because he was smiling, Steve, he was enjoying it.”

The spokes of Steve’s wheelchair twinkle slightly in the low light of the kitchen as he wheels himself across the floor to set the pizza on the table. “What’d your Ma say?”

“She’s useless,” Bucky says, sprinkling salt from the three holes bored in the top of the Virgin Mary’s head on the slices. Joseph is pepper, less generous with only two holes. The ceramic figures do double work as Ms. Rogers uses them in her mantelpiece manger scene at Christmas. He’s never had the heart to tell her that five is the number of uncertainty.  
Steve places a plastic cup of tap water down by Bucky’s plate. Taking a moment to stare at him.  
“Thanks. I can’t count on her at all,” Bucky says as he chews. “At least your mother did something when she found out. Mine won’t even acknowledge that it happened. Keeps calling it a mistake, like it was nothing more than taking the wrong exit on a freeway. She’s acting like everything’s fine and nothing ever happened, like all this time Alexander’s been off on some  
business trip instead of locked up in prison. I hate it.”

“Weren’t you supposed to be getting a new social worker?” Steve asks, taking the paper plate from Bucky as he shoves the last of the crusts in his mouth.

“Got an appointment next week, but you know how that goes. They’ll read the history, ask if everything is alright -”

“Right in front of your parents, so what’re you supposed to say? ‘No, get this sick fuck out before he starts up again’?” Steve snorts, wheeling back from the table. “What a joke. Why do you even have to say it? It’s in the file, he’s an equal opportunity molester; you, the girls…”

“Actually, I found some psych information about the crossover offenders. The ones that go after any child that moves, no matter if it’s a boy or a girl, I mean.” Bucky grimaces, wiping his mouth. “How fucked is it that there's an actual category for people like him? I mean, how many even are there?” He says, rising to throw away his napkin. “All I’m saying, is they chose to let him out in two years instead of six. And if anything happens? That's on them.”

“Alright.” Steve says quietly, “Come on.”

Bucky follows him as he wheels himself down the hallway, away from the kitchen. As they pass, Bucky flips the light switch. The lights won’t be turned back on until well after midnight, but he’s walked this route a hundred times in the dark to the sound of Steve’s wheels and his breaths, and knows it better than his own home. He wonders, not for the first time, how Ms. Rogers lives in the dark fifty-two days a year can see clearly, when his own mother -a woman who thrives in sunshine and light- can be so blind.

They crowd into the bathroom to wash their hands and faces, closing the door as to not disturb Steve’s mother -still secluded away in her bedroom- as she communes with the holy spirit, or whatever it is she does.

Steve works quickly in the dark. His soapy hands moving softly over Bucky’s as he rubs the soap into Bucky’s skin. They don’t speak as Steve cleanses, but Bucky can hear his steady breathing. 

Neither of them are afraid of the dark. Their nightmares were created on hot summer afternoons. Bucky had been four, when Alexander, Edgemont Middle school’s principal and favorite girl’s soccer coach, had left Bucky’s mother to move across town and live with Ms. Sarah Rogers Matthews, a widow with a shy, sickly eight year-old son.

Bucky doesn’t remember those days, but Steve does, vividly. For him, those days were the beginning of the end.

“Done.” Steve says, gently patting the hand towel over Bucky’s hands.

“Thank you,” Bucky says quietly, tilting his head slightly in the dark. Their noses bump, so he shifts to accommodate. He smiles as he feels the rough scratch of Steve’s beard against his lips. Bucky bends to grab his clothes just before Steve’s arms circle his waist, pulling him back. Bucky lifts the bottle from between his legs and shifts back, settling securely on Steve's lap.

They move from the bathroom and roll down the dark hallway and into Steve’s bedroom.


	5. Chapter 5

Steve’s bedroom smelt like a graveyard in July.

He burns the same patchouli scented candles as his mother, but in this room, the scent mingles with the shadowy darkness, attempting to disguise itself with the sweet smell of orchids and lavender. The smell reminds Bucky of sun-warmed flowers, carefully dropped by mourners over a grave.

There aren’t any flowers in Steve’s home, at least there haven’t been in all the time Bucky had known him, so the smell has no discernable cause for it. The smell never becomes stronger, nor does it become weaker. It just is.

The Rogers’s accept it completely without question and believe it to be a gift of grace.

Bucky does not have the same blind faith the Rogers’s have, he does not thank anyone for mysterious gifts. So sometimes he crawls around along the edges of Steve’s bedroom, searching for hidden vents or forgotten plug-in air fresheners.

There aren’t ever any there, of course.

Bucky crawls from Steve's lap, placing the bottle of Jameson on the nightstand, next to the sturdy, wooden Madonna icon. She looms nearly two feet tall, a testament to their devotion, and gazes at Bucky in silent beauty, hands gently clasped in front of her and lips curved into a small smile.

Ms. Rogers is certain that one day the Holy Mother will weep shimmering oils and, in her loving mercy, will bestow a miracle over Steve. She believes that his recovery will come from a victim soul, a pious individual chosen by God, or his followers to absorb and endure the pain of those who are suffering.

Bucky listens carefully when she speaks. And because he likes Ms. Rogers, he doesn’t point out that Steve doesn’t feel pain from his paralysis, or that Bucky's definition of mercy does not include the picking of specific people to act as clearing houses for mortal sins and agonies.

Ms. Rogers, however, must read it in his eyes. She often laughs and tells him not to worry, that God works in mysterious ways. How else could they explain this place becoming free right after Steve’s accident and in time for them to rent? Or their deep and immediate bond? It was the work of some higher power, that God had a plan for them all.

Bucky doesn’t know. He could mention that the previous tenants had been evicted for cramming too many of their exuberant, extended family into the little two bedroom and not being quiet enough about it, but that still didn’t account for what had happened the first time Steve and Bucky met…

_Bucky is sitting on the curb, the late June sun burning his shoulders, a cheap Bic lighter in his hand and a pile of notes scattered and ground into the asphalt beneath his feet. The notes have come once a week, every week for the past year, tucked carefully inside letters addressed to his mother, all bearing the same New York State Prison return address. Every week after his mother reads her letters, she reads the note to Bucky before passing it along to him, waiting for him to read it. Every week he glances over the note, pretending to take in the words written there, before eventually taking it to his room and throwing it into the little black storage tub he keeps at the back of his closet._

_It’s been a year of receiving these little notes, so while his mother is away, off to work or visiting Alexander, or whatever she’s doing; He gathers all the unread notes and pile them onto the pavement in front of the dumpster._

_Bucky lights one of the sheets, placing it on top, and staring as each note catches the flame. As the flame burns out he flicks the lighter, poking the end of it against the top sheet, watching as the paper crumbles into blackened ash._

_A transport van followed by a rusty old boat of a ford cruise slowly around the bend, heading for his lot. The van stops at the curb in front of the only empty duplex in the lot and two EMS guys get out. They leave the van running and Bucky can hear the faint strains of some random hip hop station from the van. They look at him and the still slightly burning paper at his feet, and exchange telling looks._

_Bucky averts his eyes, and watches as the Ford creeps into the short driveway. When he looks back, the EMS guys have already opened the rear doors. One of them climbs in, and the other begins to pull the wheelchair forward onto the little platform._

_There's a man sitting calmly in the chair, Bucky can only see the man's profile._

_He feels weird now, like some gross rubbernecker ogling an accident, so he pours the remains of his bottled water onto the smoldering notes and rise to leave._

_As he does, the man in the wheelchair becomes visible._

_He is tan and muscled, but the tan has paled, and his face is gaunt. His eyes are shadowed beneath sleep heavy lids, blond hair just barely grown out from what Bucky is used to seeing on the Army recruiters that have started to come to his school. A battered wooden rosary lies around his neck._

_He looks directly at Bucky._

_The world blurs and Bucky’s ears are suddenly filled with the sounds of rushing water. The pit of his stomach throbs and Bucky can feel the heat of his sudden blush over taking his body. Jesus, he’s beautiful. And his mouth is moving. What’s he saying? Bucky can’t hear him past the rushing waves --_

_“Dear, are you alright? You look like you're about to pass out.”_

_Bucky jerks back into the present, a thin blonde woman he’s never seen before has him by the arm and is staring worriedly at him. “I’m fine,” he stumbles over his words, mortified and unwilling to look back at the man. “I think I stood too fast is all.” He steps back, and she releases him immediately, but he can still feel where she had grabbed him. “Thanks. I...I have to go.”_

_But somehow, he doesn’t, and instead finds himself invited in, following the woman up the steps and through the back door as the bulb in the porch light pops, as the EMS guys help navigate the wheelchair across the lawn and into the Duplex through the sliding glass._

_Somehow, Bucky finds himself alone with the man in the living room while the woman signs off on transport. The heat inside is unbearable, and the silence stifling. The man fingers the beads and cross of his rosary, turns his face away, and Bucky stands there sweating, searching for something to break this silence --_

_“You never answered my question,” He says, his gaze still avoiding Bucky. “What were you burning when we pulled up?”_

_Bucky knows he shouldn’t say anything. It will make him seem pathetic. “Letters,” he says anyways. “From someone I never want to see again for as long as I live.”_

_The man looks at Bucky again and, in a heartbeat,, something more passes between the two, something fierce and far too intense to be spoken. He nods in understanding, pulls himself straighter, no longer slouching in his chair._

“Make yourself at home,” Steve says, closing and locking his door behind them.

Smiling, Bucky sinks into the bed, scooting himself back until he’s sitting propped against the headboard. He lights the incense, props a pillow behind him and watches as Steve wheels to the media cabinet. Scars zigzag across his back and chest, intersecting like cross streets down his arms and hands. Bucky has traveled those scars from source to destination, committing them to memory and learning Steve from the outside in.

“I want you to hear something,” Steve says, placing a record into the old player his father had kept. “I coulda shown you on YouTube I guess, but it’s not the same. All these years of looking and I finally found one on eBay for like six bucks. Can’t believe no one else bid on it.” Steve’s dog tags have somehow twisted themselves around to hang down his back and they stick slightly to his skin whenever Steve sweats. “You’re gonna like it, Buck. Just give it a chance.”

The record starts and it’s Frank Sinatra crooning “Always.” He nearly groans, But Steve looks entranced and so he bites it back. He’s raved about the song forever, struggling to remember all the lyrics, talking about how much his late father had loved it, too, had sung it to him in lieu of reading to him each night. This song is his own personal, private soundtrack, The way Los Lonely Boys’ “Heaven” had become his own. The least Bucky could do was keep an open mind.

Or perhaps Bucky’s response to the song is purely selfish, because he knows that as the love song gentles Steve, he will, in turn, gentle Bucky.

_...Not for just a year, but always…_

Steve smiles.

Frank’s voice can do in minutes what fifths of Jamesons’ can’t hope to do in weeks.

Steve hoists himself from his chair and into the bed beside Bucky. His skin is pale parchment in the soft light and his blue eyes are hooded in the shadow of his brow. He waits for a moment as Bucky lays back before laying his own head on the bared skin of Bucky’s stomach. “God, What a voice,” Steve sighs. “I wish I could sing.”

“I wish you could sing, too,” Bucky teases, pleased at the snort of laughter he receives in return.

“Wise guy.” the coarse hair of Steve’s beard scraping against Bucky with every word. “I love this song, Buck. No angst, No crazy. It just is.”

“Corny,” Bucky says lightly, to keep him talking. He likes the way Steve’s chin grazes the soft skin of his belly and the way his breath glides over him. Inhale. Exhale. The rhythm of his breathing and the vibrations of his deep voice settle something within Bucky.

He runs a hand up Bucky’s leg, resting it against the low slope between his hip bones. “I dreamed about you last night,” he says, placing a light kiss just above Bucky’s belly button.

“Good or bad?” Bucky asks, watching Steve in the mirrored doors of the closet, they provide an interesting angle; he can see the ends of them before the beginnings. The soles of his feet are still dirty and fade easily into the shadows of the room. Steve’s bare, bloodless feet tangled together in a heap next to his.

“Hmmmm, weird, it was definitely weird,” he hums, dipping his fingers lower. He hasn’t touched anything vital just yet, but he’s close to it, and his voice grows husky with the knowledge of it. He tilts his head back to look at Bucky’s face. Smiling, he props himself up to lean over Bucky a bit better. “You were sitting on a stone wall--”

“Where?” Bucky interrupts him.

“Mmm, I dunno, but there were all these flowers around, they smelt like cotton candy,” he says. “I was standing there in the dark, just watching you. Irritated and wondering why I was still inside, but there you were, out there all golden, so I just decided the hell with it and walked out to meet you. I could hear my own footsteps on the bricks.” he glances up at Bucky from beneath his lashes. “Know what you said when I got there?”

Bucky is silent as he shakes his head.

“You were reading this dictionary --”

“That's hardly realistic. A _dictionary?_ c’mon, Steve. I don’t even own a dictionary.”

“And you looked up at me and said, ‘ _Now_ I get it,’ and closed the book.” His gaze holds a silent plea. “It was so real, Buck. I mean I was sweating and shaking and when I sat down next to you, I could feel the edge of the wall digging into the backs of my legs. It couldn’t have been a memory, I didn’t know you when I could still walk. D’ya think it was a vision?”

Bucky doesn’t know anything about visions, and he’s pretty sure that paraplegia can’t be reversed, so he says nothing, just runs his hands through Steve’s hair. 

“You know about victim souls, right?” Steve asks. As Bucky scoots himself into a sitting position once more, bringing his knees up so that Steve can lean against them.

“I know they’re supposed to be pious people -- whatever that means -- and that Sarah wants to find one who’ll absorb your suffering and bless you with recovery,” Bucky says, brushing Steve’s hair back away from his face, enjoying the play of strands through his fingers. He traces his fingers down Steve’s neck, across the scars that litter his body. Steve’s accident-prone days are over now.

“Right,” he says, watching Bucky in the mirror. “Well there’s one out in Kansas. An old disabled guy who receives messages from the Virgin Mary. Ma’s gonna make a pilgrimage out there.”

“I think that’d be good for her,” Bucky says, knowing there's more to be said.

“Me too, I’m going,” he adds quietly

Bucky’s hand stills. “To Kansas?”

“Yeah,” he whispers.

Bucky stares at their reflection, at the way his bare shoulders rise up above his knees, at the translucence of Steve’s skin and the tension tightening his features. “You’re going to Kansas.” repeating it makes Bucky want to hit him. “When?”

“Friday,” he says to the expressionless boy in the mirror.

“This Friday? Like day-after tomorrow, Friday?” He sit’s up straight. “Why now? What’s the rush?”

“Ma put my name on the waiting list right after the accident,” he says. “They called last night. We’ll get an hour with him on Sunday, and another on Monday.” An odd expression grips his features before it passes, his face smoothing quickly, but not before realization grips Bucky’s stomach in a cold fist.

“You _want_ to go,” Bucky says, digging his nails into the skin of Steve’s shoulders until he looks up and can see in the mirror that Steve’s eyes have glazed over with tears.

He stops, defeated by Steve’s acceptance of Bucky’s punishment. “Steve.” He doesn’t say any more. He hasn’t begged for anything since Jamie’s legs were ripped apart like a wishbone on Thanksgiving.

“If I don’t take this appointment I’ll have to wait another year,” he says shifting so that he’s sitting next to Bucky. He runs his hand down Bucky’s spine, allowing it to linger at the small of his back. “I already asked.” He reaches past Bucky to grab the bottle of Jameson and uncaps it. Drinks and coughs when he’s done. “It’s horrible timing, but I can’t wait anymore, Buck. Somethin’ has gotta give.”

“There’s no such thing as miracles, Steve,” Bucky says.

Steve leans away from him, cold air rushing to fill the space between them.

Bucky twists to stare at him and the stubborn hope blurring his face pushes him further, makes him want to stab holes in his faith. “I mean, come on, if the blessed Virgin has such infinite mercy, how could she listen to your prayers every day without doing something about them?”

Steve upends the bottle, draining it. He wipes his mouth. “Maybe she is.”

Bucky grabs for his boxers, his tremors have returned, and he hates them for it.

“We’ll be back on Wednesday,” he says.

“Have a nice trip,” Bucky says, sliding the waistband over his hips.

“I’ll give you my keys.” Steve wraps his large hands over Bucky’s as he reaches for his shirt. “I’d never leave you here with nowhere to go.”

Bucky halts his movements. “Six days is a long time.”

“I know.” He rubs circles into Bucky’s back.

Bucky closes his eyes and leans once more against the headboard. “Anything could happen,” he says finally, surrendering to the rhythm of his warm strength. Steve’s hand slips around to settle over his heart.

“Come here if it gets bad. You’ll be safe.” His sigh stirs Bucky’s hair. “I promise.”

Bucky stares at the Madonna statue. Her face is serene, her gaze a caress. Without words, he asks her why she’d steal Steve all the way to Kansas now, while Alexander is free. Though he listens hard for an answer, the Blessed Virgin isn’t answering.

Steve is, though. His mouth against Bucky’s ear and neck, hand in his boxers. Steve’s reach is blind, but accurate as he buries his face in Bucky’s neck.

“Two,” Bucky whispers, tilting his head to bite at the soft swell of Steve’s cheekbone. Two is a good number, one for him and another for Steve, pleasure evenly divided.

“Four,” Steve counters, a smile flooding his voice.

And Bucky forgives him, in that moment, for his approaching abandonment. Forgives Him for not being what he wants, and thankful instead, for being what he needs. He opens his eyes and lifts Steve’s chin so that they can stare into each other’s eyes. His pleasure is gifting Bucky with his own pleasure and he would never dare to disappoint him.

“I love you, Bucky,” He says.

The room smells of flowers and freshly turned dirt.

“Steve,” he says, buffeted by the rush.

And again.

“ _Steve.”_


End file.
